Stars
by NerdiePie
Summary: I miss you. It's been hard without you. I've been sad. So sad. So alone. You've left a hole in my heart which refuses to heal. You can't have an angel without a devil. You can't have darkness without light. You can't have me without you. And I don't plan on it much longer. I will see you soon. Reunited. Even if I didn't show it, I loved you through it all. Mary x
1. Sail

_This is how an angel dies_

_I blame it on my own sick mind._

_Just blame it on my ADD baby._

* * *

><p>My heart skips a beat. He's... He's finally done it. That day, that day I always knew would come is here. He's tipped, he's gone over the edge, he's had enough. Now he's gone. He's gone... Tears prick my eyes, before soon racing down my cheeks. He's dead. It feels as if a hole has been ripped from my chest, where my heart once was. He's dead. He never told me anything about it, not a single word. I thought he would, but not even a whisper. Shows how special I was to him. Now he's gone, I feel as if I haven't got much left living for.<p>

My brother is dead.

* * *

><p>"Are you okay?" I hear the raspy tone on the other end of the phone, but I fail to register it. I have been like this for a while-I've not really been keeping track- a month maybe? Wrapped up in my bedsheets, sobbing my eyes out, the hole in my chest refusing to heal. Molly can see it all too well. Poor Molly, having to deal with me as a friend. More like best friend, to be honest. "You have to get out of your house, go for a walk maybe. Just clean yourself up Mary. Please."<p>

"W-Why should I?" I manage to stammer out.

"Because you're broken, and I know that will help you heal." I think Molly cares too much.

Sobs grip me again, soul-ripping sobs, whisking it all into oblivion. My body is racked with tears and loneliyness.

"Mary? That's it; I'm coming to sort you out."

"But-"

"I am, end of story. You have to be fixed, and I'm the one that will do it."

A dull, flat beep comes from the receiver.

The tears release me. I finally open my eyes, to see a mess. My mess. The mess of my bedroom. Tissues litter the floor, with books and other things that once lay on my desk and are now lying peacefully with the other discards, other things I threw from my tabletops.

I slowly get up, only to feel strong aching, extremely strong aching in my legs. I try to stand, but instantly fall face-first into the sea of rejects. A strong, mouldy aroma hits me. I get away from it, and crawl into the shower.

My numb fingers shakily turn the dial to switch the water on. Millions of tiny little droplets of water cascade down onto me, and I feel my problems wash away, with the dirt and sweat I have collected over a month. They all wash away, down the drain, out of my life. But the hole in my chest refuses to heal, even in a clean body.

I step from the shower, and pat myself dry. I feel a tiny bit better, I guess, but a shower doesn't change the fact he's gone. The feeling of being alone. The worst feeling in the world.

The floaty cloth of my dress slips over my head. I smooth it down, and proceed to dry my hair. It flutters forcefully in the power of the hairdryer. When I finish, my hair is dry. The brush runs through it, taming the beast of my bronze hair. I style it into a loose bun, small curls drifting to the sides of my face. I drift a thin line of eyeliner along my eyelids, and add a slight pink tint to my lips.

I look at myself in the mirror. I can't really do anything more. Everything's mended, but my eyes. They are so deep, so broken, so cold. I wish I could change it.

Three raps at the door. I run to the door to find Molly standing there.

"Sorry about the mess." I mutter, as she walks into my house. "I'll be five minutes, just let me collect my things and put on my shoes."

"Okay." She smiles at me brightly, just like she always does. But deep down, I can see just how bad she's feeling. She hovers around my mess of a kitchen, waiting.

I grab my phone, lip gloss, eyeliner and notepad, and throw them into a small bag. I keep a tight hold of it, and race back down the stairs. I slip my feet into my peachy flats, and beckon Molly over.

"Where are we going?" I ask her.

"We're going to meet my friend, John."

"Oh, okay."

* * *

><p>Turns out the outside world is rather pleasant. Now we're just sitting here, on a bench, waiting for John to arrive. Molly's sitting by my side, babbling on about some of the bodies she had looked at recently. I don't really listen; what a good friend I am.<p>

I look about me. Bright little park, full of pigeons and bright green grass. Very quiet. Extremely quiet. Maybe a little too quiet.

A man looks towards Molly and waves. She waves back. He limps towards us and sits next to her. I smile at him, and he smiles back.

"Hi." He says. He rests his stick on the bench arm, and relaxes a bit.

"Hi." I reply.

Well, this is awkward.

"I'm going to go and get coffee. Want anything?" Molly breaks the silence.

"Black coffee, two sugars please."

"Tea please." We both speak at exactly the same time.

"So that's one black coffee and one tea? Okay, I'll be five minutes." She walks off, cream coat billowing behind her. Such a sweet girl.

"You're John, then." He nods. "I'm Mary. Hi." He smiles at me. "How long since you came home?"

"Excuse me?" He seems surprised.

"You went to war, did you not? That kind of limp is from war trauma."

"O-oh, yeah. I got back a few years ago. Afghanistan." His eyes seem pained.

"Are you okay?" I whisper. A single tear falls from his eyes, a diamond of sorrow. I scoot a little closer to him.

"I-I'm fine, honestly." He chokes out.

"No you're not. What's up? You can tell it me? I read too much into people, sorry."

"N-no, you just- You remind me of him. My best friend. He's, er-"

I don't say anything.

Molly seems to be taking a while.

"I understand." I manage to say. "If you had seen me this morning, I would have been a mess. I mean- I was mourning. Molly managed to drag me out of the mess of my bed, out here."

"Mourning?"

"My brother, he..." I cough. "He died, about a month ago."

"Ah."

We stay in silence until Molly returns, and hands us both a cardboard cup. A few slurps every so often, but silence.

"I heard you were looking for a flat, John." Molly whispers.

"Yeah."

"Well, Mary has spare rooms." I just give her the death stare.

"Does she?" He seems actually interested. Well, fine. Maybe this could work.

"Yeah." I breathe. "Why don't you come and have a look, I dunno, next Monday?"

"Okay, sure." He really seems happy about it.

"Molly can give you the address, right?" I say.

I have a heck of a lot of cleaning to do.

* * *

><p><em>Stars. Beautiful, tiny twinkling spots of light. Diamonds that grace the satin of the night. I adore them. They are so magical, so awe-inspiring. I've always dreamed of them, since I was small. Amazing. It'd be even better if I could see them, against the amber glow of civilization outside.<em>

I sigh, and my hands go together. This is what I like best, writing. It's my first choice for a career, always has been. I have loved writing since I was tiny, always writing funny little stories about my cuddly toys and people from school. They weren't very good.

Knocks echo from the door. I jump from my seat in the study and run to the door. It's John. I smile, and welcome him into my home.

"This is the main room." The kitchen and living room are all open planned. One wall, the largest in the room, is covered with fitted bookcases and books. He looks at them, and chuckles to himself.

"I'm guessing you like reading." He smiles.

"Maybe a bit more that just reading. Perhaps I write them too..." I try to prompt him. He just looks confused. "I'm a writer."

"Really?" He seems genuinely surprised.

"Yeah, but under a pen name. Nobody knows it's me." I beam. "Find mine on there, I dare you."

He looks the bookcase over, and finds it within an instant.

"Bluebell? Not such an original penname."

"I was rushed! The publishers were okay with me having a penname, but they wanted one on the spot, and that was the only thing I could think of." He laughs.

I show him upstairs, and the two choices he has for a room. One's bigger than the other, so of course he chooses that one.

"You will be moving in then?" He nods. "Great!" I never stopped smiling.

"I think I will be back tomorrow evening with my stuff." I whisper a little 'okay'. "See you then!"

I wave goodbye, letting him out before I return to my computer.

_I really ought to sleep, but that would be a pity. I'm in my 'state'. I could think for hours and hours on end, without any mention of sleep. Thinking about the night sky, about exploring it, about exposing every wonder the universe has to offer. Educating the masses about the wonders of space._

_I may be able to find a few stars. I can see the North Star... Nope, it's just an aeroplane. But I can definitely see my favourite stars, the triplets, Orion's Belt. They're my favourites because it is the first constellation I can see, no matter where I am. But sometimes, it is impossible to see them, because of the storms, because of the glow of street lights, so I just imagine them there. They comfort me, my stars._

_Sometimes, I feel so alone._


	2. Nightmares

_It's not enough to save the day_

_I can't escape my nightmares._

* * *

><p>The knife is glistening on the floor, tinted red. My wrist burns, but it doesn't matter. It takes away the pain. I just want it to all go away. All of it. The whole in heart won't heal. It... It's all too much. A tear falls onto my wrist, making it sear with pain. This doesn't change the fact he's gone. Sobs consume me, a flow of blood trickling from the cut. It drips onto my face, and mingles with my tears.<p>

You can't have darkness without light.

* * *

><p>"I'm back." John shouts from the door. Finally. He's been at work all day.<p>

"How was it?" I ask, trying to be polite, even though I feel like crying.

"Alright." He chuckles. "I bought milk."

It's a well-known fact that wherever John lives, there never seems to be any milk.

"I'm going out later." I say bluntly.

"Mm?" He mutters.

"I said, I'm going out later."

"Where to?"

"Doesn't matter."

He's been living here about three months. Good friends, now, me and him. We do get the occasional comment, but we brush it off. It means nothing.

I wander back into my study, and pull a pen and paper from my desk. I haven't really written like this in so long; I've always been on the computer, but he deserves more.

_I miss you._

_It's been hard without you. I've been sad. So sad. So alone. You've left a hole in my heart which refuses to heal._

_You can't have an angel without a devil. You can't have darkness without light. You can't have me without you. _

_And I don't plan on it much longer._

_I will see you soon._

_Reunited._

_I love you, brother. Even if I didn't show it, I loved you through it all._

_Goodbye world._

_Mary. X_

Tears are staining the paper, but I don't mind. I don't think he would either.

* * *

><p>Clad in black, by his grave. I know I must not be a pretty sight right now, makeup running. He wouldn't care, really. I feel eyes on my back; I look around, to find nobody there. <em>It's nothing<em>, I whisper to myself. _It doesn't matter._

I can see the letter lying by the grave. It will find him, I'm sure. It better find him. I poured my heart and soul into that letter. You would have thought I'd run out of tears by now, but the droplets still stream down my face.

He was an amazing man, the best twin I could hope for. I can see past his sins. He was smart, kind and caring. He was nice. So imaginative, so friendly, so caring. We hadn't talked in years, but I was still comforted by his existence. But... But that comfort is gone now. I am alone on the water of this world, and I don't find it pleasant.

My fingers trace the white and scarlet lines on my left wrist. He made me like this, but I still love him. I will join him soon, and shake hands with him in hell.

* * *

><p>"Mary?" John shouts as I walk back into the house. He meets me in the hallway, and sees my tears. He immediately understands. He puts his arms around me, and pulls me into a hug. I cry into his shoulder. I know he feels the same. Poor John, having to deal with me like this. I'm a wreck. A poor, hopeless wreck. It's a wonder how he hasn't had enough and left yet. I pull away, and look at his face. He's been crying too.<p>

He smiles a slight, understanding smile.

* * *

><p>"<em>You're boring. You're on the side of the angels."<em>

"_I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."_

_Two men, locking horns atop a hospital roof. An angel and a devil having their showdown. The final showdown. _

_Curly, dark chocolate, messy hair. Blue eyes which could see into your head and heart. Sharp razors for cheekbones. Pale skin, like the petals of a white rose. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective._

_Black, slick, gelled back hair. Mahogany eyes which could penetrate your soul. Short stubble, bristly like a hairbrush. James Moriarty, Consulting Criminal._

"_You're gooood." Utters Jim, and pulls the corners of his mouth into a grin._

_The criminal's spindly fingers curl around the trigger of a gun, and pull it from his pocket. The barrel nestles itself in the roof of his mouth. The finger tugs at the slip of metal, and a bullet explodes from then end of the gun._

_Boom._

I scream myself awake. The bed's messed up by my movement and moist from sweat. My head aches. My eyes hurt. My body throbs.

John bursts through the door. Poor, caring John. He's tired, I can tell. His eyes look puffy and dark. I look at him with pleading eyes. I need someone here, or the nightmares will find me. He catches on instantly, and walks across the room in five long strides to sit with me.

"Th-thank you..." I murmur.

"No problem." He says.

I fall asleep lying on his arm. The nightmares don't return again that night.

* * *

><p>Nobody has visited his grave for days. It just lies there, untouched, unloved, apart for one lonely letter. A letter which deserves more than going unanswered. He decides to reply. He writes it in his cursive script, just like he always does, with a fountain pen and tough paper. He takes his time to think about what to say, the pen hovering on his lips silently. The pen drips, staining the paper slightly, but he knows she won't mind. He's careful about his words, making them kind enough not to hurt her, but that would be hard for him. He doesn't know kind.<p>

He finishes his letter, and seals it with blistering hot, scarlet wax. The seal simply depicts a small magpie on a branch, carrying some stolen treasure. Ribbons flutter from underneath the seal, like butterfly's wings on a breezy day, although... the seal is much less innocent than the beautiful creature.

He strides through the rain to the grave which bears his own name, and looks at it with a chuckle. The letter still sits there, alone. It's been crumpled and stained so many times, by rain and mud and feet alike. It was written with such compassion, such finesse. She poured her heart and soul out into that letter, and yet it gets disregarded so much to get destroyed? Pathetic. He reached down to touch the moist, imperfect and yet amazingly glorious letter. He finds himself smiling a wide grin at her devotion.

He looks up slightly at the stone before him. It was engraved with just his name, nothing else, secluded under the shade of the beautiful willow trees that guard his eternal sleep. His fingers rise to stroke the pitch black of the granite tombstone, and feels tears start to glisten in his eyes. He has felt guilt for the first time in his life, and it is not a feeling he likes. He would want the aching in his heart to go away, but he would have to talk to her first. Now that is something he really _doesn't _want to do.

He's had enough. He lays the letter down beside his sister's, and turns on his heels to walk away.

The rain continues to pour down behind him.

_Dear Mary,_

_You are wrong to be so devoted. All I ever did was hurt you, and I am sorry for that. I will never hurt you again. Not now I am out of your life. I am so sorry for what I did, what I became. I had no idea it would affect you so much._

_Don't hurt yourself because of me. I am not worth it._

_Please._

The letters both disintegrate into nothingness in the onslaught of rain and sorrow.

A single, lonely tear drips down his cheek.


	3. Going Under

_Fifty thousand tears I've cried. Screaming, deceiving and bleeding by you. And you still won't hear me._

* * *

><p>Each step creaks, moans of agony and misery which have been neglected for months now. Nobody has crept up this staircase since then. Well, only once. But the flat has been barely touched, left alone, like a relic to what life was, a museum for the man who was Sherlock Holmes.<p>

Mrs Hudson follows closely at our heels, golden key glinting in her hand. She bustles in front of us both, and shakily fits the key into the slot. She's barely strong enough to turn the tough lock of 221B, but she manages to make it click.

The door wanders open at its own pace; we're not in a hurry. Creaks echo from the abandoned hinges. We just stand there, John's body racked with shakes. Moist diamonds trickle from his tired, hurt eyes. Poor man.

My heart aches looking at him. He's so bad. So, so bad. He's barely eaten anything recently; just toast and jam. Bloody toast and jam. Nothing else. Barely any of his clothes fit him any longer, they're all baggy and stained. His hair's gained several streaks of silver atop the golden blonde, his eyes have grown cold and his skin has gone dull. Poor man. I can't say anything, really. He's better than me. My fingers curl around my wrist, and the pale lines that lie there.

He anxiously steps forward into the wilderness of the apartment, causing mites of dust to stir and swirl around in tiny tornados. The line of light catches them swimming in the air, highlighting them perfectly. I follow behind him, tears dripping onto the dark wood of the floorboards.

A blanket of dust lies on every surface possible. It's messy; paper litters the floor, with books and glass test tubes. It's a heart-wrenching sight. I know that John has read every single piece of paper in this room, every note his best friend had ever written.

I turn to look at his face. His eyes are wet and closed, a line of dark eyelashes trailing below. I put my bony hand on his shoulder, and give him a weak smile. His eyes flutter open, and he looks at me with broken eyes. He pulls me ever so gently into a hug, and we just stand there in the middle of the apartment, in each other's arms. He sobs quietly into my shoulder, tears dripping delicately down my face.

I look up from his shoulder, out of the tall window of 221B. He slowly pulls away, and decides to sit down on the couch, hiding his face in his hands. I wander slowly over, feet drifting randomly to the window. I look down to the normal people, living their normal lives. Nothing interesting happens in their lives. They don't get hurt, their days are uniform. Their lives are like linear sequences, forever moving one way, equally, the same way. Our lives are quadratic. That's what happens when you have the extraordinary in your life at any point; it runs in separate ways, differently. Separately to all those people that walk the streets before us.

My fingers curl against the cool glass of the window, my forehead joining it. I jerk slightly at the lack of heat, but it's all fine. My eyelids shut themselves, leaking diamonds that race each other down my cheeks and the window pane. I open them, and look across the street. So many people pass by. Only, my eyes catch on one. A tall man, curly raven hair, eyes as blue as the sky. They jab me. I blink, and he's gone.

I turn to a John that is weeping into his hands, and sit next to him. My hand rests itself on his shoulder, and he looks up at me. "It's okay..." I whisper, and offer him a small, warm smile. "I'm going to check something outside." I say quietly, getting up. He nods slightly, his face buried deep in his hands.

I slip my jacket over my shoulders, and almost run down the stairs. I burst open the door, and find nobody there. It's just normal people, normal people that I don't know.  
>It tears my heart in two.<p>

I look up, into the sky. The fluffy clouds drive me insane.

I can't do this any more.

No.

I can't.

Goodbye, John.


	4. Sorrow

_I live in a city sorrow built. It's in my honey, it's in my milk._

* * *

><p>"Which one's quicker?" I utter at Molly, from across the lab.<p>

"Syringe." She says quietly, focusing on some sort of body tissue under the microscope.

"But pills are easier to take." I sigh. This is harder than I thought.

She looks up from the microscope, at me. She looks pained. "A-are you sure about this?" She mutters. I nod solemnly. I have to pull through with this. I _have_ to. "There's no going back. You'll leave all us behind, you know. Me, John…" She trails off.

"I know, and I'm sorry. But I have to." I say, my voice as small as a pin prick.

She shakes her head. "I… I can't let you. I can't." I can see tears threatening in her eyes. "I won't get you the drugs, Mary." She says firmly.

My lip starts to shake. "Fine. If you won't get me the drugs, I'll go another way."

* * *

><p>The wind whistles through my hair, making it toss and turn as if it were alive. My feet are on the brink. I look down, to the street below. Nine storeys down. My stomach churns, but I know I need to do this. You can't have stars without space.<p>

I pull out my phone. I guess I really should say goodbye to John. I… I can't speak to him. Just a text will do, won't it? Yes, I've only known him five months. But, that is a bit cruel… A call, I think. One final goodbye to my flatmate. B-but… No. I can't do it. I just can't. Molly can tell him, can't she?

Yes. Mary can tell him, and he'll come up to stop me. I'll just have to leave without him. But I'll wait. Not for long, just long enough to say goodbye.

I step down and sit on the ledge quietly, just where he sat.

After seven painful minutes, the door behind me bursts open. John is panting, his cheeks blazing red. He'd run up the stairs, obviously.

"Mary!" He shouts, and runs to me. I feel so sorry for him. "Don't do this, please."

"You can't have an angel without a devil, John. He died right there. He shot himself. Now I'm all alone."

"He- He was your brother? Oh my god." He knees buckle from shock.

"Yes." I gasp through the sobs.

"I will help you. Please don't do this!"

I step up to the edge. "Mary!" He pleads.

"Goodbye, John."

My feet slip from the edge.

_Don't worry; falling's just like flying, only there's a more permanent destination._

I'm falling, falling to the streets below. It's true what they say; your life truly does flash before your eyes in your dying moments. I see him. His devilish smile; his Irish twang; his deep, black eyes; his slick, black hair. I'm doing this for him. My beautiful twin brother. I see that meeting, his last moments. That afternoon on the roof, playing with the Consulting Detective.

_You can't have an angel without a devil. That's why I don't plan on it._

My body collapses as the fall ends. My mind goes black. I can hear them all, the screams, the shouts, the concerned voices. I just can't block them out.

Minutes go past. I count my fluttering heartbeats.

"Let me through!" John shouts, after three hundred and fifty-four heartbeats. "I'm a doctor…" He's sobbing too. He grabs my wrists, and feels my pulse. Dull, but still there. His tears splash on my broken arms. He pulls me from some sort of container. He takes just to holding me, wishing me well, praying for help.

We just stay there, with only each other, until the stretcher arrives.

* * *

><p>Bright lights, antiseptic smells, anaesthetic, morphine. It's overwhelming. My eyes open, to see him by my side. He has my hand. He's tired. So, so tired. I get up, but my body's still there.<p>

I look down towards my hands. They're translucent. It makes me jump, but it makes sense. My body's dead. Well, very close to it. Its breathing murmurs and its heart is fluttering, as soft as the wing beat of a butterfly.

She looks so dead, so broken. Her chest is rising and falling gently, barely taking even a whisper of a breath. Tubes spider from her arms, forcing blood and liquid into her veins. Her head is trapped in a block of plastic. Her back's strapped to a board. She looks frail.

The door moves slightly, and in walks my best friend. _She's been crying,_ I think to myself. Her makeup has run. Poor, poor Molly. She's such a sweet girl; how could I break her like this? She tiptoes into the room, and places her tiny hand onto John's shoulder. He looks up. It's the first time he's torn his eyes away from my body. They just stay there like that for a while, before Molly works up the courage to shatter the silence.

"You'll be okay." She whispers, looking deeply into John's broken eyes. John just shakes his head slightly, the beeping of the heart monitor echoing through the sorrow. "Yes you will. She will pull through. Her heart is still beating."  
>"B-but for how long?" John mutters. First time he's spoken since…<p>

Molly puts her arms around him, pulling him into a hug. He just weeps into her shoulder, just like I used to. Poor John. I've hurt him so bad. And… And it's all my fault.

I'm a monster.

"What d'ya think of it, then?" That familiar Irish tone echoes behind me.

"It…. It's…" I can't say anything. My voice had disappeared. He saunters towards me, my back to him. His hands slip around my waist, and grasp my stomach, as much as he can anyway. It's like I'm a ghost. His midnight, fluffy wings curl around us.

"Nice of you to visit." He mutters into my neck.

"G…Get off me…" I whisper, trying to stand up. Feathers press against my back. Does, does this mean-?

I stretch. White, feathery wings burst me from his grasp. My head goes back, eyes wide shut. This is where he belongs, where he wants to stay. But not me. Brother flies backwards, his pitch-black wings manically flapping to try and steady him.

I walk forward slowly, and put my hand on John's shaking shoulder. "I… I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking straight. I…" My forehead rests against shoulder.

"Never again."


	5. My Immortal

_When you cried I wiped away all of your tears_

_When you screamed I fought away all of your fears_

_And I held your hand through all of these years_

_But you still have_

_All of me._

* * *

><p>I follow him every moment I have. He stays with me, by my side, hand in mine for as long as he can. He sleeps in the chair next to the bed, the dull beeping of my pulse the only sound in the room. I sit on his lap, curling my translucent white wings around him protectively. I hold him as he sleeps, and yet he doesn't notice one bit.<p>

Whilst I can't sleep in this state, I do let myself dive into his dreams. I have to speak to him.

It's been three weeks since I jumped. I've been in a coma ever since, sleeping, dreaming. But I am determined to get back to reality.

I perch myself delicately on his knee, my wings already starting to enclose us for another night's sleep. His eyes flutter closed, and I shut mine, delving into his subconscious.

* * *

><p>Looking around, it seems pretty nice. But then it hits me. <em>This is the flat, <em>I think to myself, _where John lived with Sherlock. Two hundred and twenty-one B. _It feels weird. Last time, it felt so empty. So… So sad.

A man is sitting on the sofa, curled up, knees pressed deep into his chest. His face is crumpled, as if he's in thought. His mahogany curls are sticking up at obscure angles, his blue silk dressing gown stretched around his legs and shoulders.

I can hear John shout from the kitchen. "Sherlock, we're out of milk." He walks out of the kitchen, and I hide behind the doorframe, only peeking slightly.

"Go get some." Sherlock's deep voice purrs, like a panther. "Your job to get the milk."

I laugh quietly. It is _most definitely_ John's job to get the milk.

I can see John's fury starting to build, steam almost flying from his ears. I start to silently giggle against the wood.

Sherlock can hear me. I can see his ears twitching in my direction, but John remains unaware, furious at the silent man across the room.

_Can John see me?_ I think, thinking I could maybe try it out. Curling my wings around me, I sneak backwards into the hall, silently opening the door to the kitchen and sneaking through. Now Sherlock can definitely see me, an eye open and focusing on me.

I walk carefully and purposefully around John, tiptoeing comically. I can see Sherlock is stifling a laugh. John can't see me; he's just focusing on Sherlock. I sigh in relief as John walks from the room, fed up, leaving for some milk.

I bend down to Sherlock's ear, and whisper quietly, "You can see me?" He nods, his curls bouncing.

This leaves me speechless.

"You're a ghost, like me." He say. "Of course I can hear you. And see you." I smirk at him. Smart.

"I… I have to go." I smile at him, noticing the grey wings tucked under him. "The dream's going to break soon. Bye."

"Goodbye, Mary Morstan. Good luck." He utters, as our surroundings start to dissolve, like ink in water.

* * *

><p>My eyes snap open, meeting with his. But he can't see me. He sees straight through me. I let out a sigh.<p>

He starts to stir, his brain slowly switching on again, whirring. My fingers go to touch his face, but he can't feel me. To him, I'm walking the tightrope of life and death.

"Starting to feel it?" he says behind me. Ugh. He's been driving me mad.

"What do you care?" I turn around to face the Irishman. "You never fucking did."

"Mary... You know I car-" He says, his voice a whisper.

"No!" I almost screech. "No Jim, you _never_ did. Not _once. _Now do me a favour and fuck off, okay?"

I can feel the hurt resonating in his eyes.

"Please." He says.

I simply shake my head. I bend over, and rest my forehead against John's temple. My eyes shoot daggers in Jim's shadowy direction.

Silence.

All apart from the slow beeping of my heartbeat.

"You never did anything for me." I whisper against John hair. "Nothing." I close my eyes, tears threatening to show.

"Just go."


End file.
